


i can't believe it's just a burning memory

by gabriphales



Series: gomens drabble hell [113]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, No Plot/Plotless, Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:02:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: aziraphale tries to reconstruct crowley's memories from before the fall
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: gomens drabble hell [113]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664713
Kudos: 7





	i can't believe it's just a burning memory

**Author's Note:**

> hope u all enjoy the caretaker reference in the title

crowley’s hair is thick and full, vibrant strands of curling locks that twist like ivy vines the more aziraphale attempts to wrestle with them. crowley’s entirely limp now, utterly relaxed with his hands on his chest, back to the grass while aziraphale sits and styles behind him. there's flowers blooming everywhere, perfect to be used like this. perfect to be used in crowley’s hair. and crowley lets him - crowley laughs when he dabbles in white-petaled morning glory, and the dashing oranges of marigolds, centering them in a proud crown around his head, while the smaller flowers are set throughout his curls, spreading them to dot in between layers.

“you enjoying yourself, angel?” crowley laughs, eyes rolling back to get a better view of that focused, intense expression. aziraphale’s little mouth curves into a frown, he stares down at crowley like he's something to study, to dig into and reap information from. like dipping his fingers deep inside sand, and scrabbling about for the crabs and shells hidden underneath.

“i’m _trying,_ ” he speaks the words like they’re a proper effort to get out, like the strain is a generosity he’s offering crowley, even just to talk. “to see if you remember anything, once i trigger certain memories. surely, this must all feel _somewhat_ familiar.”

“sorry, angel,” crowley scoffs, rolling onto his belly, and facing aziraphale head on. “think you might have the wrong guy.”

“i told you once already, my name is aziraphale!” the angel bites, sharp-tongued and vicious in a way that betrayed his mild manners. crowley stiffens up at it, sitting on his heels now, and cocking his head to the side, inquiring, “what am i supposed to do next, then?”

“what?” aziraphale asks, looking awfully confused for the one who seems to know what he's missing, what _crowley’s_ missing, apparently.

“tell me,” crowley drawls on. “what am i supposed to do? how would i have done it, before i fell?”

aziraphale softens then, hands gathering and clutching at the folds of his robe in a nervous habit of sorts. he smiles, or, at least, tries to smile. crowley can tell it's forced, there's no crinkles at the edge of his eyes, and his mouth is drawn tight, trapped in a thin line. 

“well,” aziraphale mutters, bashful now that he's gotten crowley’s complete attention. “i - i do suppose you’d take me ‘round to the edge of the pond, so we could look together.”

crowley holds his hand out, fingers cupping around the angel’s palm. “let's go, then.”

and the pond is glistening this time of day, low and sleepy in the afternoon. time is a new concept, freshly woven by the almighty herself, but crowley finds he rather likes having something to keep track of. dipping over the bank, and staring himself in the eye, he finds the angel was quite careful with his handiwork. a cautious, refined craftmanship, making him out to be something better than he is, _grander_ than he ever will be again. he looks like - well, dare he admit to having been weasled into the situation in the first place, he looks like an _angel._ and he doesn't like it.

neither does aziraphale, if that dawning look of pale grief spanning across his features is anything to go by. he swallows, hard in his throat, and his eyes are wet and watery, he looks like he's about to cry.

“you really don't remember, do you?” he says. it's barely even a question, more of an unfortunate means to an end. the tears blister over, streaming hot down his pretty face, and something ancient in crowley aches to wipe them away, to comfort and console and shush, to very quietly hold the angel against his thin frame, and rock back and forth, like the humans did with their new baby.

but aziraphale is shuffling back from him, almost seeming afraid, with those frantic, greyblue eyes of his. “i can't - i shouldn't have spoken with you, i’m sorry.”

“hey, angel,” crowley reassures, leaning in to stroke his gleaming cheeks dry. “aziraphale, listen to me, it's alright. maybe i’ll remember another time, with other flowers.”

“no, no,” aziraphale insists, startling at the first brush of crowley's hand, insistently darting away. “i can't - we shouldn't, we'll get in trouble.”

finally, the gap between them is too steep, too far for crowley to dare crossing. he sighs, feet planted where they stand, itching to run, to envelop aziraphale whole. it's such a strange, coarse desire, it grits and gnaws at him like hungry teeth. crowley doesn't want anything to do with it, yet longs to delve deeper, touch the part of it that's soft and warm, a velvet smoothness, to feel it from the inside out. he knows this feeling must be kind, somewhere in there it just has to be. it's why the angel's given it to him. angels only ever give gifts, tokens and gestures of gratitude, of protection, of _love._

perhaps - _perhaps_ he remembers more than he thinks.

“i have to go,” aziraphale says, firm and final in his demands. “don't - please don't try to talk to me again.”

and though he flits away quickly, unsteady, and on the cusp of weeping, crowley knows that demand has no meaning when the angel is certain to come to him first.


End file.
